What You Need to Hear
by ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: While recovering in the hospital from his suicide attempt, David Karofsky receives an unexpected visitor.


A few days into his hospital stay, Dave Karofsky is in the middle of an episode of _The Steve Wilkos Show_ when he hears a knock at the door. A day or two into it, he used to turn the television down at every instance, heart leaping like a dog eager for his master's return. Now he doesn't even bother. His parents stopped visiting on the second day. None of his so-called "friends" have come. The only person to really visit him since he tried to kill himself was Kurt Hummel and calling that situation surreal is putting it nicely. Surreal, but…but nice, too. Good. Oh, but how precious the irony must have been; that he put that boy through so much and yet here _he_ was the one who had tried to take his own life! David Karofsky, the tough guy of the school. The jock, and thus one of the school's elite. The bully. Dumb muscle. The guy whose best hopes for college rest on a football scholarship.

Well…_rested_.

The knock comes again. On the television, Steve Wilkos is throwing a chair to the crowd's screaming delight. Dave takes in a breath and exhales a sigh. It occurs to him that it could be one of the nurses bringing in lunch. Maybe the one with the striking gray eyes who took his vital signs yesterday morning. Dave straightens up in bed. He turns down the volume.

"Come in."

The door opens. The moment Dave sees the lack of cart upon which the meals are delivered he slouches a little in his bed. Then he gets his view of the visitor and cocks an eyebrow. It is definitely _not_ the nurse with the gray eyes, nor is it any other member of the hospital staff. It's someone else entirely. Someone from the outside. From the world that seems to be rejecting him. The visitor is shorter than average, with his short black hair slicked down and shiny thanks to some kind of hair product. He dresses like he has money to blow on clothes or like maybe he is actually a preppy little fashion model from New York instead of a high school student from Ohio. A black coat hangs over his arms. Dave has only really seen him once or twice, but the presence of the young man fills him with…some feeling without a proper name. Anger, maybe. Or possibly jealousy.

_Jealousy? Over what?_

So many reasons. Most of them without name.

"The hell are you doing here?"

Blaine Anderson looks at Dave with what he can only guess is pity. "Actually, I'm not entirely sure. I kept asking that on the way here and I really have no idea."

"Then get the hell out."

And he turns up the volume on the television just in time to hear someone's trailer park-bred sister yelling about being certain one of the mullet-heads is a beater and a cheater. Dave watches with all the amusement of someone trying out the wonders of escapism therapy. Unfortunately, the feeling of being watched is nagging his attention at an increasing rate. It takes until Steve is yelling for one of his guests to get off his stage for Dave to notice that Blaine is still in the room with him. This time, Dave mutes the television.

"What the hell do you _want_?"

Blaine shakes his head. "You haven't changed a bit."

Dave's face briefly reflects confusion. "What?"

"Kurt said… Well, he told me that he came to see you. He said you were…humble, I think was the word. That you'd changed. You were better." Blaine pauses. He shakes his head again. "I don't think you've changed. You're still as angry and bitter as ever."

"Considering I tried to hang myself—"

"But you didn't. You failed, just like you failed at everything else or feel like you failed at everything else—"

The younger boy stops himself. He almost looks surprised by what has come out of his mouth, as if whatever plan he had for coming down here didn't originally include insulting his boyfriend's biggest tormentor. Blaine draws in a breath, composes himself. Why hasn't Dave kicked him out yet? It would only require the press of the call button. Summon a nurse to whisk this little hobbit away so he can get back to taking his dose of daytime television.

"I didn't want him to come see you," Blaine says. "It didn't make sense to me why he'd want to, considering the circumstances. We fought about it. I still don't understand it. Why would he come see you?"

"If you're expecting me to answer that," Dave answers, "you're shit out of luck. I have no idea why. He just showed up. We talked. _(He pauses.)_ He's a lot nicer than you, all things considered."

"Yeah, well…I don't call him my 'better half' because it's cute."

The silence settles in awkwardly. Blaine shuffles his feet. Dave fiddles with the remote, occasionally shooting glances to the television. People are crying, hugging each other. The cameraman is doing his best to get as good a close-up of all the emotional outpouring as he can. Steve Wilkos stands off to the side, hands clasped in front of him like a cop standing at respectful attention. Blaine looks up. His face wrinkles in a cringe.

"What is this?"

"It's a talk show. The bald guy is the host. Mostly, he just yells and throws chairs."

"That guy looks like Mr. Clean," Blaine says.

Dave surprises himself by actually chuckling. "That's what I thought, too."

The silence settles in again, only _slightly_ less awkward than before. They watch the screen for a few more minutes. This show is ending but a new one is coming on—another talk show, from the look of things. More dysfunctional families airing their grievances in front of millions for the secret benefit of people like Dave. Seeing these people acting like fools on television reminds him that life could be so much worse. His problems could be so much worse. Why did he even think his problems were so bad that suicide was an option? What dumbass reason was it that finally tipped the scales?

"How long are they keeping you here? Kurt said— I thought you were going home today."

"Why did you come then?" Dave asks.

Blaine shrugs. "I had things I wanted to say, I guess. N-not—not what I said a few seconds ago—"

"Then what, then? Stay away from Kurt?"

"It would be nice," Blaine blurts out. He shakes his head. "Kurt wants to help you. Hell if I know why, but…he does. I can't tell him what he can and can't do, and I'm not about to start trying.

"Besides," he adds, "I figure the last thing you need is more people isolating themselves from you. That's not gonna make it better. It doesn't make the bitterness go away, or make you less angry about how things have turned out."

"So…what? Are we friends now, too?" asks Dave.

"I don't think we're there yet. You and me? I'm not sure we can ever be there," Blaine admits. "Doesn't mean I'd wish this kind of thing on you. I wouldn't wish this kind of thing on anybody."

"Fair enough." Before the silence has a chance to settle in again, Dave says, "They're keeping me here a couple extra days."

"Why?"

Dave wrings his hands. He looks down at his lap. "They're… They have to run some tests. Some, uh…some— _(He rubs the back of his neck.)_ Some CT scans or MRI o-or some bullshit like that—"

"What? Why?"

"Because my mom—" His face grows red with embarrasment. His voice drops. "My mom thinks I might have— Sh-she wants to make sure I didn't…get brain damage or something."

"She _what_?"

"Yeah." Dave's face turns redder. "She, um, she thinks maybe something happened—maybe a bad hit during football or—or I don't know. She just thinks, y'know, it's a disease; there has to be a cause. Something to fix."

"A cure to find," Blaine says quietly.

"Yeah. I don't know." The older boy shakes his head. "I guess I can't blame her, right? I mean…I-I almost want to—I want to blame _someone_; it feels like the world would just make sense again if I knew I could blame this on someone or something—but I—I can't. There's no one to blame."

"So you blame yourself instead?"

"If it's no one else…then who?"

Blaine frowns. "Maybe there's no one to blame. Maybe it's just all in your head."

"So what, I'm crazy, then?" asks Dave.

"No, not like that—like—" Blaine shakes his head. "—like everything you've heard, everything you've grown up with…everything that's been said to you or in your presence. Stuff like that. The jokes, the teasing, the—the things people say about…how wrong it is to be gay, how terrible it is; that it's unholy or inappropriate or unnatural or whatever. The way they react when they find out someone they know or even don't know is gay. All of that stuff… It gets under your skin. It affects you, whether you become aware of it or not.

"That's why when stuff like this happens, like when people realize that truth about themselves—that they are this…thing that they've been told all their lives is unnatural or wrong or… Sometimes people don't take it well. They go into denial. They stuff it down so people don't see. They end up angry. Bitter. Looking for people to blame. For ways to escape the hurt."

"But Kurt—"

"Kurt's one of the lucky ones. Good support system, accepting family—"

"And you?"

A rueful look crosses Blaine's face. As he steps over to Dave's bedside table, he shifts the coat to the crook of his right arm so as to better dig in one of the pockets of his coat. A black wallet is brought out from hiding, and from within that wallet, Blaine retrieves an orange business card. The unusual color makes Dave remember something he hasn't thought of in ages—of his childhood, specifically of nights spent playing Monopoly with his family and those stupid "Get Out of Jail Free" cards he could never seem to draw, as if he had no luck whatsoever.

"I want to give you this. It's a… Well, this woman, she—she runs a counseling center—" Blaine starts.

"So she's a shrink?" asks Dave.

"Not a psychiatrist. A _counselor_. Not the same thing. She can't prescribe medication or anything. She just… She listens. She offers a safe space to talk. She doesn't even really ask for money, just…" Blaine shrugs. "If you're good at lifting stuff, or gardening, she'll take that for payment. But she's good. She can help you. And if she can't, she'll know someone who can."

"How would you know?"

As his guest reaches out to set the card on the table, Dave looks down to read the information printed in black on its front. He catches, almost without realizing it, something else-a peek of Blaine's left wrist, and the start of a web-white line hiding there like a secret in plain sight.

"She helped me," Blaine says, and he sets the card down on the table within Dave's reach. "I gotta go. Just... Whenever you're ready, give her a call. Make an appointment. Couldn't hurt."

"Not any worse than I've hurt myself, right?" asks Dave.

Blaine says nothing, but the look he gives... Dave watches as he turns and goes, coat hanging from both arms again. He is gone for what feels like ages before Dave even bothers to look at the card. He thinks of what he saw as Blaine put it down, the hint of a scar indicating a darker moment from the past. Why would Blaine let him see that, assuming he intended him to do so? What does it mean? Does it make them friends of a kind?

_"I don't think we're there yet."_

Yet. But maybe...

_Maybe?_

Well…he can hope for something, can he?

It couldn't hurt, anyway.


End file.
